Muses, mistresses, lovers, your image is blurred

Muses, mistresses, lovers,
your image is blurred
and might fade.
Desdemona,
are you still banished from Eden?
Byron wants to taste the cheap red wine
on Annabel Lee’s lips
tonight,
while Poe would be standing between you
and the dark.
Their voices would raise.
Raise.
And I thank them for keeping me on writing
new grisly sentences
of longing.